No Escape
by King35763
Summary: Night after night of fighting crime have begun to take its toll on Bruce, who is just starting his journey to becoming the Batman. What can he do when the only people who can let him stop are dead? Rated T for one strong explicit word


His vision was starting to fade as his car's shocks screamed, absorbing the force of the car hitting the paved road into the cave. The noise and jerking was enough to wake up Bruce long enough for him to push down on the breaks, slowing and eventually stopping his mammoth vehicle. His breathing was hard, and his fingers fumbled as he undid the straps securing him in place. As he finally got the last one undone, he slowly pulled back his hood, gasping with pain at the exertion. He then hit the button to release the hatch, which started to hiss and recede.

He turned to see Alfred already beginning to climb up the vehicle, looking at Bruce with the intense worry that he'd come to expect these past months. No one had said that crime fighting would be easy, but often times Bruce would joke that the hardest part about it would be coming back to Alfred's worrying. Of course, he usually didn't have at least three broken ribs when he said that.

Bruce waived off Alfred's attempts to help him out of his seat. He needed to be strong. He needed to stand on his own. He managed to make it onto his feet, gasping and sweating from the effort. Or was it from the bloodloss? He didn't know anymore. But he slowly climbed down, and stood in front of Alfred. "I can walk, but I'll need your help to-" His vision almost completely faded, and he was only able to watch as he started to fall forward, his knees giving out from under him.

Luckily, Alfred was quick in his age, and was able to catch him… mostly. In reality it was closer to dramatically slowing his fall. It was enough however, as Bruce regained most of his motor functions. He wasn't fully able to stand on his own, but Alfred was already slinging Bruce's arm over his shoulder, offering support. "Come on, Master Bruce, let's get you to the medical bay," Alfred said. Bruce could barely hear him however, and merely nodded in response. He immediately regretted it as he felt his neck muscles spasm in protest. He'd been punched pretty hard earlier, and had probably strained a lot of his neck muscles – if not tore them entirely.

They slowly trudged through the cave, a couple times taking a break so that Bruce could catch his breath. He didn't even fully remember making it to the medical bay. He remembered stumbling at the entrance. His hulking mass slipping from Alfred's grasp. He seemed to remember starting to crawl forward, as Alfred tried to help him up again. Then the next thing he remembered was lying down on their operating table. Bruce had jokingly tried calling it the bat-table, but Alfred had solemnly told him that they would not make light of the place that would be used to keep him alive.

Bruce's eyes were having trouble staying focused. He was staring at the ceiling of the cave, the stalagmites hanging down over him. He felt a prick in his arm as Alfred started to administer painkillers. He felt his head slowly roll towards the side as his consciousness started to fade. When the darkness had almost completely overtaken Bruce, his vision finally solidified, and he looked at Alfred. And in that last glimpse, he wasn't sure if the condensation running down the old man's face was sweat, or tears.

* * *

As Bruce slowly became conscious of his surroundings, he immediately became aware of his breathing. Each breath he took was labored, but not agonizing. He just laid there for a minute, just breathing in and out. Then he slowly tried to open his eyes.

His right eye slowly opened, but his left eyelid wasn't responding the same. This was probably for the best however, because even with a single eye and the dim light of his surroundings, the illumination was bright enough to make him realize how much his head hurt. He grimaced from the sudden flare of pain in his head. He quickly squinted until his eye had become mostly regulated to the light. Then he turned his attention to his left eye.

He attempted to pull it open, but found that the eyelid was stuck shut. This meant that blood had most likely dried over it. It was unpleasant, but not something that Bruce was unaccustomed to in these few months since he started this crusade. He moved his arm, to force the eyelid open. However, the movement was too much, causing his body to scream in pain. He gasped in pain, his back arching. The pain was intense, and coupled with his headache, it proved too much. Despite all the pain it caused, he forced himself to roll to the side as he felt the bile slowly rise up his throat.

He always hated throwing up like this. The body naturally curls and moves as the bile makes its forceful escape. However, this caused all of his wounds to flare up. His entire body felt tense and bruised as the last of the fluid dribbled onto the table next to him. Lucky for both him and Alfred, they had foreseen this exact thing happening, and had decided to have the floor of the medbay grated, so anything that wasn't solid would flow into the river below.

As Bruce rolled over again, he was unsurprised to feel a warmness slowly leaking down his right side. Moving so quickly after being patched up had opened up at least one of his wounds. Bruce could only hope that Alfred would realize that before Bruce slowly bled out. He once again surrendered to unconsciousness as he felt the blood starting to pool on the table.

* * *

This time when Bruce awoke, he was a lot more careful to slowly gauge his limits. However, this time he was able to wake up without any stabbing pains. He slowly lifted his arm, and while he could almost hear his muscles moan in protest, he didn't experience any extreme pains. He slowly started to push himself up off of the table.

"Take care Master Bruce. I've already sewn up some of those wounds three times now. They may not be as healed as you think," Bruce heard a tired voice say. He slowly turned to see Alfred sitting in a chair nearby, looking like he hadn't gotten much sleep in a week. For all Bruce knew, he that could have been true.

"How long was I out?" Bruce asked, deciding that this was a good place to start. Alfred looked at him with his tired eyes, not answering. The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, Alfred obviously deciding whether or not to answer.

However, eventually he sighed and closed his eyes. "You've been asleep for almost five days now." Bruce merely nodded. He had figured as much. These days when he finally gave into sleep, he often was harder to wake up then the dead themselves. Bruce stared down into the waters below as they swept past, just watching their progress. Then slowly, his muscles tensed as he started to lift himself off of the table, attempting to stand.

He hadn't made it very far when Alfred was in front of him, a hand pushing on his chest. Alfred of course couldn't actually stop Bruce from getting up by force. However, it was enough to get Bruce to pause and look Alfred in the eyes.

"Your wounds have just started to heal. Too much movement and you'll tear them open again." The two stared at each other, their wills clashing. When neither of them gave in, Bruce just slowly pushed himself anyway.

"Relax Alfred," Bruce said in his smooth tenor. "I'm not going out tonight. I'm just going up to the study."

Alfred didn't look particularly pleased at that notion either, but didn't verbally object, instead replying, "Very well sir, is there anything that you will require?" as Bruce started his walk towards the old Wayne Manor.

Bruce didn't turn back, merely called over his shoulder, "Some ibuprofen and then a few minutes of time to myself Alfred."

* * *

The portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne stretched above the fireplace, larger than life paintings of his parents towering above. The picture was formal, with Thomas wearing a full tuxedo, and Martha wearing one of her best dresses, and finest jewelry. While the two had been known for their life and love for each other, neither was smiling in this particular portrait. Evidently the artist had felt it inappropriate for the somber tone he was going for if the two were smiling, so the two instead had remained straight faced as the artist painstakingly captured them both in painstaking detail.

Tonight, none of that mattered to Bruce. He sat in the chair facing the fireplace, staring up at the flat figures of his parents. He wasn't sure if it was an imagination or an illusion of the flickering light from the fireplace, but the eyes of his parents seemed to be looking back at him, frozen in their solemn judgment of their son.

Bruce continued to glare up at them, until he whispered, "It's been over seventeen years." The anniversary had been a month and a half ago. Alfred had made sure that he had gone to their gravestones on the day to pay his respects. "Seventeen years since I lost you both. Since I lost my entire world."

The Waynes didn't reply as Bruce continued, "Since that night, the city has slowly succumbed to the filth that inhabits it. The streets become more dangerous day after day, criminals becoming bolder and bolder. The police force, the law, the government has all become corrupt. Since you stopped becoming the shining beacon for the city, it lost sight of itself."

Bruce, feeling his heart rate starting to pick up, got up and started to slowly pace across the room, as he continued explaining to his unfeeling audience. "That night, I swore that I would do everything I could to stamp out the senseless violence that took you both from me. I trained for years, devoting my life to become the weapon of your will. I've sweat and bled, given up any chance I had of a normal life to pursue the vow I made to you."

He quickly turned, gripping the back of the chair he had been sitting in shortly before. "But despite all that I've done, nothing has changed. After months of work every night, of putting away criminals, of spreading fear, there has been no change. The crime of the city refuses to budge. And I'm not sure how much longer I can push."

He paused, slowly feeling the heat of anger that he had tried burying long ago rise into his face as he glared up at his parents. "You're both dead. You've been dead for seventeen years. And if I don't stop, I'm going to be the same soon. Is this what you wanted? Your son coming in night after night broken and struggling to live? Your son being dead in the streets, just like you both were? For fucks sake, you've both been gone for years, why are you killing me too?" Bruce didn't stop the tears from starting to flow down his cheeks as he started to scream in full, "I have so much to live for. Why can't I be happy? Why won't you let me go!" he shouted, grabbing the chair and throwing it to the side.

He stood in directly in front of the fireplace as he shouted, "Nothing I do will bring you back! But yet you still won't leave me be." His voice wavered, and slowly he sunk to his knees, kneeling in prayer before his parents. "Please, just let me go," he said, returning back to a whisper. "Please. I don't think I can go on anymore."

He stayed like this, kneeling before the portraits of the gods that ruled his life that he had once called mom and dad. Not daring to look up to continue to see their unmoving eyes, passing their judgment on the matter without having to say a single word. He just knelt there, hoping for some sign.

Then, softly, he felt something rest on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to see the hand that had been resting on his chest earlier. Alfred was standing there, tears streaming silently down his face. However, when he spoke, he words were strong and clear. "You don't need to do this sir. Not for them. No parent would want this for their child."

Bruce paused, just looking at Alfred, before slowly getting up and turning to face the man who had replaced the father who now only loomed down. He smiled a small rueful smile and him, and in turn rested his muscled hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Unfortunately Alfred, it's never been a choice for me." He then slowly walked forward, standing tall despite the weight of the world that had once again settled on his battered shoulders.

* * *

 **A/N: Hey everyone/anyone (?). I've emerged from the dead, and this time doing something completely different. Batman oneshot. The idea for this story has been bouncing around in my head for quite some time, and I figured that it would probably be a good way to de-rust and try and figure out pacing for one shots. Let me know your thoughts, and I'll be back when I can (I'm hoping to have something else by next week)**

 **Cheers!**

 **King35763**


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